Any Other Name
by Kethrielle
Summary: Aric Jorgan and Lieutenant Compton learn to work together, trust each other, and eventually something more. Snapshots of the spaces between in-game relationship milestones. (Now with resolved formatting issues!)
1. Chapter 1

Sergeant Ashara Compton felt as if she had stepped off one battlefield only to step immediately onto another one. It wasn't a new feeling - she had been slogging through separatists on Ord Mantell for the last few weeks, after all - but this was different.

She walked into the Republic command post, fully expecting to bear the brunt of Lieutenant Jorgan's ire at the defection of Havoc Squad, only to find him pacing like a caged rancor as all his ire was aimed at a Republic General.

It took didn't take long for her to understand what had happened. Havoc Squad was, for now, beyond their reach; but the Republic military had to punish someone for the stunning defection of their most decorated special forces squad, and Jorgan was just close enough to be caught in the backlash.

Sergeant Compton sighed and closed her eyes in the face of Jorgan's anger and the poorly hidden pain in his voice. Despite his words, she knew he wasn't blaming her for what had happened; it wasn't a great stretch of imagination to understand what this meant for him.

She turned her attention to General Vander as he introduced himself, and proceeded to turn the world on its ear. She could hear Jorgan's teeth grinding as Vander promoted her, and assigned him to Havoc Squad.

"I'll take the Havoc badge and sergeant's stripes if it means I get to grind them into Tavus' face before we kill him."

There was so much anger in his voice, but Jorgan didn't seem like the sort to appreciate a show of sympathy; indeed, Vander was continuing as if the sergeant's anger wasn't worth mentioning. Lieutenant Compton (and that would take some getting used to!) wasn't willing to let the matter drop so completely, however.

She drifted over to where Jorgan stood, nodding as she listened to General Vander's explanations and orders. Jorgan was standing facing away from them both, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, every muscle tensed, and a deep scowl on his face. He ignored her, and largely ignored General Vander as well.

Ashara stopped a calculated distance away from Jorgan, and waited for General Vander to finish. When he had finished with his orders and nodded in farewell, Jorgan turned and uncrossed his arms; when both Havoc soldiers snapped to attention, her shoulder armor clacked quietly against Jorgan's.

Jorgan turned to look at her, anger and resentment still lingering in his glowing eyes. She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.

"Let's get off this dust ball." She kept her tone neutral, her words selected carefully to fall between invitation and order.

Jorgan's tone was indecipherable, but it was far from neutral.

"I'm right behind you, sir."


	2. Chapter 2

Lieutenant Compton realized they had a problem when they reached the shuttle hangar.

She had slowed her steps until she was walking next to Jorgan and then said casually, "Sorry we're leaving in such a hurry. If you want to take some time on the holovid before we go, you may."

At least, that was what she intended to say. She only got the first syllable out before Jorgan whipped around to face her, anger clear in every stiff line of his body. Ashara raised her right eyebrow and let the rest of her expression go blank as she stepped out of the walkway and stopped. She let her eyes rest on his face in polite query.

Jorgan's eyes dropped to her collar, and the new lieutenant's tabs there. She watched him take a slow breath and deliberately unclench his jaw.

Ah, so that was the problem.

Ashara waited until he raised his eyes to her face, then started again. This time, she leaned into the first word.

"Sorry we're leaving in such a hurry. If you want to take some time on the holovid before we go, you may."

Jorgan's eyes narrowed, as if he suspected her of changing what she had been about to say, but when she didn't change expression or say anything else, he gave a curt nod.

"Thank you, that won't be necessary. Sir."

Ashara nodded, and started towards the shuttle again, lengthening her strides so he could fall in behind her.

On the shuttle, they both stowed their gear and strapped in for takeoff, Jorgan sitting a calculated distance from his new CO. That was fine, Lieutenant Compton leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, thinking.

It was clear that Jorgan was smarting from his demotion. Not surprising, despite his very proper tone and his earlier words to General Vander and herself. It was equally clear that hearing his new rank was a problem he needed to sort out.

Ashara figured she had two options. One, avoid the issue by not using his rank at all. She didn't care when it was just the two of them, but for good or ill, "sergeant" was the rank he held in the Republic military, he would be referred to by rank simply because most people wouldn't know better.

That left option two, help him get acclimated to hearing the word, so he wouldn't snap at anyone who said it. Harder, especially with only a few days in transit between Ord Mantell and Coruscant. She didn't want to be playing games in the field, and she had a feeling they weren't going to be wasting time with a lot of sightseeing when they landed.

Ashara opened one eye just enough to peer across the room at Jorgan. He sat stiffly in his seat, seeming to be at attention even while sitting down with his own eyes closed. She doubted that he would appreciate being coddled, and she was sure he would notice right away, especially given his precise attention to detail.

So, acclimation it was, then. Lieutenant Compton pulled out her datapad and started making notes; she would have to make the most of the time she had.

Three days wasn't long, after all.

...

The trip to Coruscant wasn't long, but it was excruciating.

Aric Jorgan - _Sergeant_ Aric Jorgan, and the thought made him bare his teeth in a snarl - spent much less than half the transit time successfully evading his new CO; as a result, he spent rather more than half the transit time being forced to speak with her.

She was… annoying, at best.

She was invariably cheerful, and endlessly interested in his history, his opinions, his experiences, and his thoughts.

"Good morning, Sergeant," far too cheerfully for the hour, "did you sleep well?"

"How long were you with Armed Forces Command on Ord Mantell, Sergeant?" Dangerously close to the source of his anger, that, and he barely managed to reply without yelling.

"What do you suppose we get for lunch, Sergeant?" with an ironic lift of her eyebrows as they were handed their latest meal of standard rations.

"What did you like about being a sniper?" she fixed her eyes on his face with a serious attention she had only rarely displayed until now. That time, she'd actually gotten an answer from him.

"Hey, Sergeant, wanna bet we're getting rations for dinner?" another grin, inviting him to share the joke. He didn't.

He tried to get rid of her by offering one word answers (and most of those growled impolitely and bordering on insubordination); when this failed to dissuade her questions, he stopped answering altogether.

When even that failed to slow her questions and observations, he started with carefully veiled insults. She either ignored them, or grinned appreciatively when he was particularly clever.

Anyone else would have taken the hint and left him to himself. Not Lieutenant Compton, though. She seemed to hardly notice his rudeness. When he didn't answer her, she shrugged and filled the silences herself.

He quickly learned her entire professional history, and a large chunk of her personal history. He quickly learned that she had a dry comment for nearly every situation.

He rapidly decided that she was the worst sort of human (in his opinion): the chatterbox.

He was a sniper, and that meant instant assessments; people, risks, battlefields, he was used to making snap decisions. He was a sniper, and that meant patience; he could be silent and surly for far longer than she could stand to be cheerfully oblivious. Surely.

Except she wasn't oblivious, she was doing it on purpose. He caught her watching him too closely for it to be an accident. And there was one other thing that gave her away: she always called him "sergeant." Never Jorgan, or even Sergeant Jorgan. Just Sergeant, and she said it far more than normal conversation required.

Every time she spoke to him, she addressed him by rank. It rubbed his nerves raw, and he growled at her each time she said it. Of course, he never failed to reply with a bitten-off "sir," but she accepted this without any sign of noticing his anger. He decided it was her revenge for all his curt words and "rookie" comments on Ord Mantell, and determined to bear it stoically.

Three days, trapped in a shuttle with his painfully cheerful CO. Three days, listening to her never ending stories and questions. Three days, being addressed by his new rank. Three days, his permanent scowl deepening into a permanent glare.

Three days, and her smiles and open familiarity started wearing down his anger. Three days, and he knew her better than he'd ever known a CO outside of the Deadeyes. Three days, and he found himself beginning, maybe, to trust her. Reluctantly.

Three days, and at the end of them he was able to face General Garza without flinching or yelling when she addressed him as Sergeant Jorgan, and welcomed him to Havoc Squad.

Walking out of the Senate tower, his new CO slowed until they were walking next to each other. She didn't say anything, and his eyes narrowed at the unusual silence. He was a sniper, and that meant watching, waiting, and sometimes… reevaluating. He was only beginning to understand her, but her smug expression was obvious.

He snorted. Under no circumstances would he be thanking her.

She flashed him a grin, and knocked her elbow into his with a dull "clank" as durasteel plates banged against each other.

Together, they headed towards Havoc Squad's first mission.


	3. Chapter 3

Ashara Compton was frighteningly competent. She was thorough, loyal, and smart. As Jorgan followed her through some of the worst areas of Coruscant, he grudgingly began to admire her as a soldier. She wasn't even half bad as a lieutenant; she always put the Republic first, her world view was refreshingly similar to his own.

Jorgan still had some reservations, naturally.

* * *

Every mission took twice as long as it should, because she cheerfully stopped to help anyone who asked it of her. Some of them, he would have been happy to help, himself. It was only right that Havoc Squad should take some of the heavy lifting off the Coruscant forces - who were already stretched too thin.

Her patience with every random complaint was driving him crazy.

"I can't believe we're doing this, sir. We have more important things to worry about."

She raised her eyebrows, shooting him a look over her shoulder. "More important than keeping slave collar tech off the streets?"

"No. That was worth doing. I'm glad we got those."

"So… more important than proving the senator was working with the gangs?"

"No. That needed to come to light."

"So… more important than rescuing a child?"

"Not… exactly. I'm glad we were able to find him."

"Oh, then we should have left the explosives out in the open for starving refugees to find?"

"No…."

"Then I'm not sure I see the problem, Jorgan."

When she put it like that, neither did he. But their slow progress still made him antsy.

* * *

When a wrong turn in the Senate Tower introduced her to the droids from the Gree Collective, she was fascinated. She spent far too long trying to puzzle out their strange phrases, muttering them to herself while they traveled, as she tried to make sense of them.

"Those droids should be fed to a rancor."

Her eyebrow lifted. "You need to cultivate some patience, Jorgan."

"Anything you say," he growled, "black bisector." His tone made an insult of the title.

Ashara grinned. "I had no idea you wanted to do nicknames!" At his horrified look, she arched an eyebrow. "Now, Jorgan, don't be so white perpendicular."

He didn't bother to hide his disgust, and refused to speak to her for the rest of the day.

* * *

She had an infuriating habit of looting the bodies of their fallen enemies. He'd been shocked, after their first fire fight, when she calmly stripped their foes of everything useful.

"What are you doing, sir?"

Ashara looked up. "Finding out if he had anything we can use. He won't be using it."

"And then what?"

She shrugged. "And then we'll move on. Don't worry, I work fast."

"Not what I meant, sir. What are you going to do with all that… junk? I mean, broken bits of data pads? You'll never use that!"

"Ahh, I see. I'll sell it. There are always vendors hanging around near the taxi pads. I'm not too worried about getting top dollar… or at least, not worried enough to lug this stuff around longer than necessary."

"You're profiting from doing your job. It isn't right, sir."

"Oh, it isn't for me. I figure we'll swing by Nar Shadaa one of these days, and set it up in a private account, just for Havoc."

Jorgan spluttered. "But why?! We get paid, we get supplied, what could we use it for? What possible," he looked at her, eyes narrowed, and corrected himself, "what honest need could we have?"

Lieutenant Compton straightened, and met his eyes.

"Insurance. Against getting burned. I don't agree with Tavus' solution, but his problem was real." When he would have interrupted, she raised her hand to stop him, and continued, her voice growing fierce. "I will not allow my team to be put in that same position. As long as we have credits, we have choices. And what Garza doesn't know about, she can't interfere with."

She held his gaze another minute, then nodded and turned away.

Jorgan couldn't bring himself to argue with her; he also couldn't see his way clear to helping, so he stood by, awkwardly, his eyes scanning their surroundings for threats, as she bent again to her grisly task.

* * *

Jorgan had once heard the term, "grace under fire," from one of his human teammates. He had rolled his eyes and dismissed it; after all, humans had far too many different ways to say, "you did your job." That's all Jorgan ever needed to know, and it was the only compliment he usually saw fit to give. "You did your job." What more did soldiers need?

Watching the Senate panel question Lieutenant Compton, however, Jorgan was reminded of this phrase. Perhaps it was because answering to the Senate for the defection of a team she barely knew wasn't actually the Lieutenant's job; perhaps it was because he didn't want to see Havoc disbanded since it was his only career choice at the moment, and she seemed to be doing a fair job of preventing that. Whatever the reason, Jorgan decided that the phrase certainly applied to his new CO.

His breath caught when the senators asked her who was to blame for Havoc's defection. He watched her eyebrows lift in the expression of polite surprise that he was rapidly growing used to, mostly because she aimed it at him fairly often. It was an expression she used when someone said something so incredibly wrong-headed that it was a surprise they could walk and talk at the same time, but for some reason she didn't want to offend the speaker.

Under any other circumstances, it would have amused him to see it directed at the senators.

Lieutenant Compton's voice was steady and direct. "I don't think anyone could have seen this coming, sir."

In that moment, Aric Jorgan almost believed her.

* * *

As they walked out of the meeting room, Jorgan wrestled with himself. He wasn't sure he believed what she had said in there, but it was clear that she believed it. Expressions of gratitude weren't something he was very familiar - or comfortable - with.

She slowed her steps, in the now-familiar invitation that he walk with her, instead of behind her.

Inspired, Jorgan lengthened his own strides and caught up. Keeping his face forward, he stepped closer to her, and let his elbow bump gently against hers. Her eyes slid over to study him. With his greater peripheral vision, he didn't need to copy the gesture, but he did let the corner of his mouth relax slightly from his habitual frown.

It couldn't be called a smile, and it certainly wasn't inviting conversation, but she seemed to understand anyway. Ashara grinned broadly and knocked her elbow firmly against his armored side as their steps settled into synchrony.


	4. Chapter 4

Occasionally, Ashara thought shakily, the greatest risk to her continued health and well-being was her own stubbornness.

* * *

She joined the Republic Army because she wanted to help people. This was the first time, though, that she had been able to make the decisions, to actually make a difference.

The feeling when she accomplished something that no one else had been able to, that no one else could be bothered with, and really _helped_ someone by that effort… went to her head, pretty quickly.

Ashara knew she had annoyed Jorgan on Coruscant with her refusals to ignore anyone with a problem or a plea. She knew she had a very important mission, and that she couldn't do it if she was injured or dead. But the looks on the faces of people who had been hopeless and now suddenly found hope were more than enough to balance it out.

She was willing to admit that this time, she had perhaps carried things too far. She hadn't meant to agree to being injected with the rakghoul serum in hopes of finding a cure - she had been just about ready to laugh at the suggestion. But then, she'd caught a glimpse of Jorgan's scowl and found herself saying "yes."

Trying to provoke him, as he had provoked her with that condescending speech about leadership earlier. It wasn't the best reason for doing something stupid. On the other hand, it wasn't the _worst_ reason she'd done something stupid, either, so there was that.

Anyway, it worked. And if she still felt sick and a bit wobbly, well, if she didn't mention it, he'd never know, right?

* * *

Sometimes, Jorgan reflected, he was his own worst enemy.

* * *

Garza gave them a ship, after they finished running around Coruscant. Jorgan was quietly pleased… it meant they had control over their missions, and more - it meant Garza took them seriously.

Ashara explored the ship, excitedly telling him her discoveries ("Jorgan, there's a huge cargo room!" "Jorgan, did you see the med bay?" "Jorgan, we have a huge bridge!") and worse, dragging him around the ship after her; his blood boiled more with each interruption.

What stroke of fate had made all this hers? Why was she rewarded for Havoc's desertion, while he was punished? The same cause, but two very different effects. What special knowledge or experience made her qualified to lead Havoc? None that he could see.

(Ruthlessly, he pushed aside the newer memories, of her foresight, her competence, her commitment, her loyalty. Those were fine things, but they didn't make a _leader_.)

Did she think this job was just about getting some fancy toys? They were tracking down traitors, this wasn't a game. When she came to the armory, where he had installed himself with his back resolutely to the door in the hope of dissuading interruptions, to tell him about some stupid thing the steward droid had said, he snapped.

He growled at her, pretty much told her he didn't trust her and thought she wasn't up to the job. When she didn't rise to the bait, he scowled and turned away. His bad mood persisted the rest of the trip to Taris, his brooding silence held through their landing.

When they hit the ground, though, Lieutenant Compton evidently decided to stop tolerating his silence. She filled the gaps herself, and although she had given over calling him "sergeant" every sentence, she started in on her recent tacit threat - nicknames.

"Feel like renting a speeder, or wearing out our boots, Sunshine?"

"I really really hate rakghouls. Why would anyone want to reclaim this stupid planet, Smiley?"

"What did you think of Sergeant Dorne, Hotshot?"

"I cannot _believe_ anyone colonized this stupid planet once, let alone twice. Can you believe it, Chuckles?"

"I would expect any self-respecting pirate to avoid this place like the plague. Oh! Good shot, Trigger!"

When he growled at her, she just grinned and otherwise ignored him. When he sniped, she came up with more creative insults. When he tried to reason with her out of sheer desperation, she claimed that all SpecForce people had code names, and she was just trying to find one that fit him.

His jaw was sore from clenching his teeth so much, but slowly, he started to see the pattern.

When his angry silences dragged, she would start in with the foolish nicknames. When his acidic comments or tone started to edge into insubordination and outright rudeness, the nicknames became more insulting.

She thought she was clever, but Jorgan was onto her now. He was determined to show her that he knew what she was doing; he was grimly certain that calling her on her not-so-subtle methods of modifying his behavior would be the end of it.

He waited until they were climbing around a downed supply ship while Ashara tried to get the perfect angle for a picture she had promised the quartermaster back at the Republic camp. As they dodged yet another variety of grumpy Tarisian wildlife, he scowled at his contorting CO and spoke, scorn dripping from every word.

"There has to be a better way to waste our time. Sir."

She froze, turned to look at him with her eyebrows raised in polite inquiry.

If he hadn't been so annoyed - and so sure of himself - that look would have been warning enough. He was annoyed, though, and smugly confident of his plan, and the warning passed unnoticed. He scowled at her, refusing to back down.

Ashara's lips quirked, an acknowledgement of his determination, before she turned back to her task. For several seconds, Jorgan basked in the pleasure of his success.

Then, the click of the camera as she got her picture, and she started working her way back out of the wreckage. Her voice was a deliberately infuriating drawl.

"You're probably right. We're done here, anyway. Lead on, Kitten."

Jorgan saw red. Kitten? _Kitten?!_ Of all the insulting, demeaning nicknames she'd tossed his way on this stupid planet, that was the worst. Jorgan forced himself to take a breath and look at his CO before he murdered her.

She was standing in front of him, one hand fisted on her cocked hip, one eyebrow raised, and a challenging smirk on her face. It slowly dawned on him that she had deliberately chosen the most insulting thing she could think of without crossing the line into unprofessional behavior; he reluctantly faced the fact that his plan had backfired. He gritted his teeth and managed a barely civil, "Right behind you, sir."

Ashara nodded, and set off for the base and the waiting quartermaster.

* * *

She called him 'kitten' in the field for the rest of their stay on Taris, until Jorgan was convinced his jaw would crack in half from being so tightly clenched for so long. Fortunately, she dropped it before they recruited Sergeant Dorne, and never mentioned it again.

For his part, Jorgan tried to keep his acerbic comments to a minimum, and never lectured her about leadership ability again. He had to wonder, though, just how long she'd held that 'kitten' comment in reserve, waiting to see if he would push her to use it.

He was appalled to find the thought strongly flavored with approval.


	5. Chapter 5

Lieutenant Compton was pleased to finally be on Nar Shaddaa. The smuggler's moon had always held a strange attraction for her; the lights and sounds were fascinating to someone who spent a lot of time traveling through the quiet darkness of space. Not to mention, every time she went there, she seemed to discover something new and interesting - and frequently blush-worthy, but that just made it more fun.

This wasn't leave, though, she had a mission, so she and Jorgan headed straight for the meet with their new SIS contact. That the contact turned out to be handsome, smooth, and perfectly willing to flirt was a bonus, so far as she was concerned. Flirting was something Ashara Compton engaged in for the pure aesthetic enjoyment; she had no intention of carrying it further, but much like the banter between her squad it was a chance to lighten moods and increase confidence.

So, she flirted with Balkar. Shamelessly, some might say, but she could tell the SIS agent flirted on instinct, with even less intention of acting on it than she had; for him, she figured, it was a way of getting people to focus on the wrong thing… an invaluable skill for someone who lived by misdirection.

She could hear Jorgan's teeth grinding whenever they talked to Balkar.

She had become used to his grumbling on this mission, he clearly didn't like Nar Shaddaa ("The lights here are giving me a headache") and he wasn't a fan of the SIS in general ("You can't trust the SIS, sir, you never know when they'll decide some other top secret mission is more important, and drop you in a rancor pit as they run off to work on it."

She mostly ignored him, and ever since Taris, he'd been careful to at least keep his grumbling respectful. Until they met back up with Jonas, and the SIS agent's usual flirtatious comments drew Jorgan's ire in a spectacular fashion.

"Get your priorities straight, Balkar, or I'll straighten them out for you."

Jonas stared at him, and it was all Ashara could do not to turn and stare at her teammate as well. His tone was surly, his words angry, but it wasn't much different than one of their casual conversations, so she couldn't tell if he was seriously concerned about Jonas' apparent lack of respect for her, or trying somewhat awkwardly to join in.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, Sergeant."

It was a throwaway comment, the sort of thing they said to each other all the time, team banter that was second nature. They'd had a dozen exchanges like it on the battlefield or off; he made a snide comment about her cooking, she 'helpfully' pointed out how many shots he'd missed in the last skirmish. He rolled his eyes and sighed when she helped every civilian that crossed her path, she lingered to let the happy civilians fuss over them when they had finished whatever task she'd taken on. He fidgeted while she stripped their fallen foes of their credits and sellable items, she made a point of raising her eyebrows and widening her eyes in shock when he exchanged his rifle for the much more powerful one she found on one of those fallen enemies.

So she expected some acerbic reply to her challenge, or at least a quote of the regulations against fraternizing, offered in a patronizing tone. She never could have imagined his stumbling, defensive reply.

"What? I don't - I mean - gah, am I the only one who cares about the mission, here?"

Ashara only just managed not to spin around, and stare at him in shock, with her mouth hanging open. Because, really, he may as well have just said, "Yes. Yes I am jealous;" but she'd never before gotten even a hint of such feelings on his part.

* * *

The rest of the mission passed in a whirl. When they'd completed it, she sent him back to the ship, and had Elara join her for the last few pieces of business. Even that didn't help her focus, much; only Elara's threat to take over driving when she ran the recon walker into a wall for the third time got her focus back on the present.

She determinedly avoided Balkar and the SIS offices. She barely even spared the helpful SIS agent a second thought.

Jorgan was jealous of her flirting with another man. There could only be one reason for it. Aric cared for her himself.

This trip to Nar Shaddaa had certainly lived up to its reputation: she had learned something that made her blush.

When they finally returned to the Thunderclap, she sent called orders on her way to her quarters; for once, not slowing down enough to even make eye contact with her teammates, let alone check in with them.

Once in her room, she sat on her bed with a thump, and stared at the wall until the shudder of the ship told her they'd entered hyperspace, her thoughts chasing themselves around in circles, with only one thing standing out clearly.

Aric cared for her.


	6. Chapter 6

Ashara Compton couldn't sleep.

She lay on the bed in her quarters, and willed her tired mind to _shut up_ and let her get some rest. Tatooine and Alderaan were behind them, Tavus was in front of them, and she needed to get some rest.

She couldn't exactly call the previous missions "successful" by anyone's standards. Jorgan had been silently disapproving when she saved Fuse; less silent and more disapproving when she made it clear that she respected his choice to endanger himself when he realized what his work was being used for.

Jorgan had been much more satisfied with the conclusion of their Alderaan mission; Gearbox was dead, his ridiculous mech with him. Ashara couldn't find it in herself to be anything more than distantly satisfied that the threat he presented to the Republic was neutralized. She remembered when she had met Gearbox, his easy friendliness on Ord Mantel, his assumption that she could handle herself. That had been a rare courtesy, one Jorgan himself hadn't extended to her, come to think of it.

This matter of hunting down Republic soldiers, no matter what their recent choices, wasn't one for the faint of heart, and it didn't make for relaxing evenings, either.

Of course, the clomping sound of Jorgan's boots as he stomped around the ship, apparently equally sleepless, wasn't helping either. Whenever he passed her quarters, she could hear him muttering even through the bulkhead. Finally, Ashara decided that they were only making things worse for themselves, and she determined to do something about it.

She rolled out of bed, pulled on her fatigues, and left her room. Jorgan had stomped down to the cargo bay, so she used the time to get her weapon and cleaning supplies from the armory. By the time his pacing brought him back through the midships, she was fully ensconced in the common room, her assault cannon spread in pieces across the table in front of her, her hands comfortingly dotted with gun oil.

* * *

Jorgan stomped around the Thunderclap. Dorne and Compton were asleep, or at least safely closed away in their respective quarters; he had the ship to himself.

They were moving too slowly; the Empire, and the former Havoc members, were always several steps ahead of them. On one hand, he knew it couldn't be any other way - Tavus and his team had been planning this for who knew how long - but on the other hand, it galled him to always be on the defensive.

He had barely been able to speak to the Lieutenant Compton in the wake of Tatooine. His anger at her blind acceptance of Fuse's word - although it had proved to be true enough - her willingness to forgive, even if she wouldn't forget… he couldn't agree with.

Of course, it was a different situation; she had not been personally injured by Havoc's defection, instead she had been promoted. He was the one who had been betrayed, demoted, disgraced. That he was making more of a difference now than at any other point in his career, he refused to acknowledge. That Tavus and the others had acted solely on their own interests, and not out of any desire to burn him, mattered less than Fuse's naive protestations of innocence, as far as Jorgan was concerned.

Ashara Compton saw things differently, though, and that the root of the annoyance that had driven him to pace the Thunderclap throughout the last several nights.

He had been starting to think they had a lot in common, a similar mindset and similar priorities. He had been starting to trust her; and more, he had been starting to like her. It infuriated him to find out that may they may not have as much in common as he had thought, though he wasn't willing to examine the reasons for his anger too closely - or at all, since that embarrassing scene on Nar Shaddaa.

Jorgan stomped his way back towards the common room from the cargo bay, fully intending to start on another circuit of the ship, when he stopped short.

Ashara was sitting in the common room, her weapon laid out in front of her, a dab of gun oil on her nose and a smear of it across her forehead. Her hair was loose and waving around her face in a far more distracting manner than the utilitarian bun she usually wore. She had one foot on the floor, one propped on the seat of her chair. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth as she worked a spec of dust out of a small component of her weapon. Silver hair and silver eyes, both glinted in the overhead lighting like sun on mist. She looked up, and smiled a welcome that went straight to Aric's gut with a kick like a sonic grenade.

"Jorgan. I couldn't sleep, figured I may as well be useful. Join me?"

It was a casual question; she didn't even hold his eyes while she asked it, instead lowering them back to her work. He could no more refuse her than if it had been a command delivered in the heat of battle.

"Certainly, sir. Just give me a moment."

She waved a hand, trailing a few more drops of cleaning solution across the table in the process, but didn't look up.

When he sat back down, dismantling his assault rifle without needing to think about what he was doing, she spoke again without looking up.

"You know, you could call me Ashara when we're not on duty, Jorgan."

He blinked. He could? He considered that, and decided he couldn't. Too risky. Risky to what? He didn't pursue the thought, answering her before his thoughts could get into a tangle that was sure to escape in some awkward manner.

"Thank you, sir."

She snorted at that, and rolled her eyes, but didn't push him.

They worked in silence for several minutes. She finished with her assault cannon, and picked up an assault rifle from the floor. It wasn't one he was familiar with, and he studied it as she efficiently dismantled it, and set about cleaning and inspecting it.

He finished with his own weapon, and set it aside, leaning back in his seat as he watched her idly. Her hands were strong, and callused much like his own. The nails were short and blunt, a human curiosity that he could never resist wondering at. Her fingers moved over the assault rifle with the smooth confidence of long experience, and he admired her abilities even as he fell under the hypnotising effect of her efficient motions.

He found his mind settling into restfulness by the time she was reassembling the weapon.

When she looked up, and caught him staring, she arched her right eyebrow questioningly.

Jorgan sat up abruptly, casting about for something to say before she asked the question he could see forming on her lips.

"That's not one that you got off the Ulgo guards, is it? I didn't see them carrying anything that advanced."

Ashara just smiled, her eyes returning to her work. The assault rifle finished, she capped the cleaning supplies, and used a mostly clean cloth to wipe the table. Supplies packed into the appropriate case, she looked back at Jorgan.

Picking up the rifle, she handed it across to him.

"No, I picked it up in the market while Dorne and I were restocking the med supplies; thought you might like it. I've never seen one modded quite like that before."

He blinked at her in surprise. Looked at the weapon she was holding out to him, and blinked again. He'd never had a CO give him a gift before, but that was clearly what this was.

"Oh. Well, that's... really thoughtful." Jorgan winced, he sounded too surprised to be flattering, and not very grateful.

Ashara didn't comment on it, though. She simply stood and picked up the box of cleaning supplies. She started towards the armory, passing around the table behind him. She let her hand rest lightly on his shoulder; when she spoke. her tone was light, amused.

"You're welcome."

Her fingers trailed across the back of his neck before she walked away, and he shivered at the contact. She had a very casual approach to friendly touches - it had taken some getting used to, but he had come to appreciate her wordless affirmations - but this was the first time she had ever touched him without her armor and his between them.

She passed back through the common room on her way to her quarters.

"Try to get some sleep, Jorgan."

He managed not to snort audibly. Right. Like he'd be able to sleep now. His mind was spinning as much as it had been before, when it drove him to pace the ship. Still, he made his way to his bunk, and settled into it.

To his surprise, his thoughts didn't keep him awake despite their turmoil. He drifted into sleep, accompanied by pleasantly vague dreams; all of them featured that casually electric slide of her fingers across his neck.


	7. Chapter 7

Lieutenant Compton had spent quite a lot of time imagining how the fight on the Justice would go, and what she would do afterwards. They weren't really plans, simply thoughts and ideas on what she might do with Havoc, whether Jorgan would stay after the traitors were finished, what she would say to Tavus, how she would feel when the last member of the original Havoc Squad was dead. She had always expected a great feeling of relief, followed by a truly great party with all her squad at the swankiest bar she could find on Coruscant.

She never expected Tavus to find his conscience.

He wasn't as naive as Fuse, she had always assumed he had walked away from the Republic with both eyes open. But, then again, there was nothing to make you reconsider your life choices like staring down the wrong end of a pair of blasters; especially when those blasters were wielded by the people who had systematically taken down the rest of your elite squad.

She had been relieved to be able to tell Tavus that they weren't all dead. Saving Fuse was one of the few bright points in this mission, so far as she was concerned.

And so, when Tavus volunteered to help the Republic again, she agreed. Despite feeling Jorgan's disapproval radiating from his customary position behind and slightly to her right, she decided to give Tavus that second chance, and was able to turn him over to Garza alive. She accepted Garza's offer of leave time with relief, and she and Jorgan headed back to the ship in silence.

Ashara knew he was angry at her, and she knew why, so she ignored his sullen silence. She set course for Coruscant, informed the rest of her team of their leave, and retired to her quarters. She started removing her armor, sat down on her bed, and just… stopped.

She stopped thinking, stopped making plans for that dinner with her squad, stopped planning for the future. What was the point? Everything she had been focused on for so long was accomplished, for better or for worse. She had hunted down and killed some of the best soldiers in the Republic; this wasn't something to celebrate, or be rewarded for with another mission. By all rights, she should be quietly shoved to the side, out of sight out of mind, until she could retire.

Ashara didn't leave her room for the day and night that it took the Thunderclap to travel back to Coruscant.

When they arrived, Elara tapped on her door and tried to invite her to go out. Ashara politely declined, sent the rest of the squad to their well-deserved downtime, and lay back down on her bed. She had no excuse for feeling so lost, so adrift, and she refused to infect anyone else with the feelings. Eventually, she fell asleep, soothed by thoughts of the others celebrating their win without her inexplicable glumness.

Finally, though, she did have to leave her room. She was hungry. Although she had no intention of leaving the ship, she figured some ration packs from the common room would solve the problem.

In a day or two, she'd call the squad back, and go report to Garza. Or maybe the other way around. She had time to decide.

When she left her room, the first thing she saw was a mess spread across the common room. Bits of armor, bits of weapons, the odds and ends that she was forever picking up in the field and forgetting to sell to a merchant. Ashara stopped and stared. In the center of the mess sat Aric, looking up at her with his customary scowl.

"What? Jorgan, what in space are you doing?"

"Inventory. We have a lot of mismatched junk lying around, and I figured it was time to clean it out. Forex volunteered to carry it to a vendor I know in the spaceport when I was finished."

She blinked. "But… what are you doing here? You're on leave."

"So are you." He shrugged. "So, what are you doing here?"

Ashara found the nearest seat, shoved an old helmet off it, and sat down, bringing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She certainly didn't want to admit that she had been feeling less than confident about her actions and her future, but she couldn't lie to him either. Especially not while he was sitting there, hands cleaning and sorting the oddments spread out before him while his eyes never left her face. That was his sniper's look, she knew, and she wouldn't be able to wait him out, or deceive him..

She settled for honest, but uninformative.

"I'm resting. Figured I'd do it here on the ship."

"Uh huh. Resting. Like you did all the way here."

She scowled. "I have a lot of resting owed me, you know. I feel like I haven't stopped running since I first jumped out of that stupid walker on Ord Mantel."

"I don't doubt it. I've been running right along with you for most of it. But this isn't the same thing as catching up on your R&R. Is it. Sir."

Oh, the way he said it made her want to squirm. Not a question at all, and that 'sir' so deliberately tacked on, reminding her of her duty to the squad, to the Republic, to him.

Especially to him, speaking of Ord Mantel.

Ashara sighed, didn't squirm, and met his eyes.

"No, it isn't. I just… feel like I've lost my way. No, like I've lost my self." When he just watched her silently, she added with a hint of defiance. "I didn't sign up to kill Republic soldiers."

"They weren't." He said it flatly, and when she snorted at his sophistry, he shook his head. "No, they really weren't. They made that decision, knowing what it meant. Even that idiot Fuse knew that defecting was the wrong course of action. And Tavus especially knew what he was doing."

"I suppose. That's certainly one way of looking at it. Still."

"Yes. Still. You're not supposed to feel good about it, but you don't need to beat yourself up about killing Republic soldiers, either. It's a rotten business all around, but they chose it, not you. Once Tavus and the others made the decision to leave, there really wasn't any choice for the rest of us. You did what you had to, sir."

This time, there was no hesitation, and no extra meaning behind the honorific.

"He was right, though. Tavus. Tracking them down has accelerated my career. In what other lifetime would I possibly be leading Havoc Squad? Its… obscene to be rewarded for this."

"You did your best, you got results. It wasn't the mission that we would ever choose, but what soldier truly gets to choose their missions? You deserve your position. You're what Havoc needs. Someone who puts the Republic first, even when it hurts. Someone who doesn't blindly follow orders, but stops to think about them first."

Ashara glanced at him again, then dropped her eyes. She extended one foot, and gently nudged the helmet she had displaced from the chair, making it rock gently on its curved rim. She shrugged, reluctant to admit that he was right; even more reluctant to admit that his unexpected and flattering support was making her feel better already.

The silence stretched between them, until the airlock hissed open and voices reached them. Familiar voices. Elara and Forex had returned.

"Ah! Lieutenant! There you are. We were hoping you would join us for drinks. It doesn't seem right to go off on leave while you're stuck here." Elara smiled, and waved a hand at the mess. "Forex and I will help get this sorted while you get ready to go out. I heard about a great new place in the Market District. You'll come too, won't you Sergeant Jorgan?"

Jorgan nodded, and looked pointedly at Ashara. She gave him a half smile and nodded, to him and Elara both.

"Alright, just give me a moment."

* * *

Five minutes later, they were all dressed in civvies, and headed out in search of that "great new place" Elara had heard about.

Forex, carrying the crate of items for sale, offered to meet them there, and headed off to a vendor he was familiar with. Elara lead the way briskly toward the taxi stand with Jorgan and Ashara following obediently in her wake.

As they walked, Jorgan stepped closer to her, and let his hand lightly bump against hers. Without their gloves and armor on, she could feel the heat of his hand and the brush of the short fur that covered it. Without looking to the side, she smiled, and took the first deep breath she'd had for awhile, feeling the stress of that horrific mission finally falling away.


	8. Chapter 8

When Garza asked her to pick an XO, Lieutenant - now Captain - Compton didn't hesitate. She named Jorgan without even turning around to look at where he and Elara stood at parade rest behind her. Surprised and grateful, a rush of emotions tied his tongue; he said something, but knew it wasn't what she deserved to hear after that gesture of support and confidence in him.

They'd been back on the ship for nearly an hour now, and he'd spent the time pacing the small confines of the armory, trying to figure out how better to thank her.

At least, that had been his intention. As he paced, occasionally pausing to reread his official promotion notice on his holopad, he started second guessing himself.

Was he really up to the job? Who was he, after all? A disgraced, demoted lieutenant. The fall guy for the brass when the original Havoc Squad went rogue. He'd done well enough with the Deadeyes, it was true, but Havoc was an entirely different operation; he was beginning to see that strict adherence to the rules and the military may not be the best course here.

Compared to Captain Compton, he was not even slightly qualified. What irony, how much his opinion on her leadership had changed! The things he had found annoying, or outright unprofessional, were now the same traits that he considered as her greatest strengths, and he knew he would never measure up. He didn't have her way with people, or her self confidence. He'd never had - and never would have - her clear vision of right and wrong. Wasn't that what Havoc needed? Wasn't that the thing that would hold Havoc together, and loyal, no matter how bad things got?

So, Jorgan paced. And as he paced, his thoughts chasing themselves in circles, his opinion of himself sank lower and lower, until rather than feeling grateful for the promotion, he was about ready to ask her to reverse it.

A quiet clack brought him up short. Leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, was his captain, a slightly exasperated expression on her face as she watched him.

"You know, the Thunderclap isn't actually powered by nervous energy, Jorgan. We'll get along just fine, even if you relax."

He gave that the snort it deserved, but it was halfhearted at best. He wondered how long she'd been standing there. She rarely leaned against anything, especially while in armor, so he guessed it had been more than a few minutes, anyway. The assumption added to his embarrassment.

"Sorry, Sir."

He was just going to open his mouth, questioning her decision to promote him, when her expression changed. From slightly amused and exasperated, she now looked pleased - with herself, and with him - and he knew that she was here to congratulate him on his promotion. He couldn't disappoint her, not after she had shown so much confidence in him and had such patience with him.

Fake it 'til you make it, right.

He braced his hands on his hips, trying to look confident, but he couldn't meet her eyes.

"Sir, I'm not very good at this, but… thank you. For the XO spot." When she didn't answer immediately, he rushed on.

"My career took a big hit when Tavus and the others defected. I wasn't sure it would ever recover."

He might have continued on, except that she held up a hand. He fell silent, and stood uncomfortably as her gaze flicked across his face and her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"Not very good at this." Her voice was thoughtful, her unwavering appraisal pinning him in place and keeping him silent. "Not very good at what? Saying thank you? That's simple enough, and you did it well. But you're still uncomfortable. Pacing, frowning, not looking at me…"

She trailed off, considering, and tipped her head to one side as she watched him. Her gaze sharpened, and she continued in that thoughtful voice, speaking aloud but mostly to herself, watching him for reactions. He'd watched her use the same tactic before, voicing her thoughts and pursuing whichever provoked a reaction in her listener.

"Nervous energy. Nervous about what? The possibility of being demoted again? The expectations of being Lieutenant again?" Although he tried to keep his face expressionless and his body still, she was obviously getting something from him, as her questions came closer and closer to his doubts. "Being my XO?"

He wasn't able to hide his flinch when she said that, and her eyes flew wide. "Nervous about being in the XO spot, Jorgan?" He refused to answer, and she tried again. "Nervous about being _my_ XO, Jorgan?"

That prompted another twitch, and she narrowed her eyes, trying to catch his gaze, as she fell silent.

She let the silence stretch, while he resisted the urge to look at her and try to guess her thoughts. She shifted slightly, the familiar and reassuring sound of armor clicking against itself almost lulling him into looking up. He caught himself, though, and stared stubbornly at the deck, his hands still planted on his hips in a useless attempt to look - and therefore feel - more confident.

Finally, she moved. He rarely thought of her as short - she had so much sheer presence that her physical size didn't seem to matter - and she was taller than most human women, but she was shorter than he was by several inches, and she used that to her advantage now. Stepping forward, she ducked her head until he couldn't help but meet her eyes. When he did finally look at her fully, she smiled and knocked one armored hand against his chest plate.

"Come along, Lieutenant."

Then she turned and left, not even looking to see if he followed her. Which, of course, he did. No matter how prying and personal your CO was being, no matter how casual the conversation might have been until now, one simply didn't disobey an order delivered in that tone.

Jorgan followed her to her own cabin. His steps seemed to suffer from the new heaviness in his mind, robbed of his usual grace by his churning self doubt.

When they reached her cabin, he stood awkwardly in the doorway. Ashara made a rolling gesture with one hand.

"Come in, close the door."

When he had, she walked around the bed to the armor stand and wardrobe that stood along the far wall. She pointed back to the desk on the opposite side of the room, and the data pad lying there.

"Sit down. Read. Tell me when you're finished."

He did as she said, sitting in the chair that put his back to the room, and picking up the data pad. It seemed to be her personal notes, things she wrote down to organize her thoughts. He scanned entries from the last several months, smirking slightly when he saw an entry about Captain Kalor that labelled the man as a "bloody damn nuisance, not qualified to shine Elara's boots," and considering several tactics for getting rid of the man.

He was wondering why she wanted him to read this, and was starting to get distracted by the unmistakeable sounds of her armor being removed, when an entry from several weeks ago caught his attention.

 _XO? Going to need one soon. Will Garza appoint? Or me? Best to be prepared to appoint/argue if necessary. Clear choice: A.J. Reasons to give Garza, if needed._

 _~ Experienced in rank/ability (already been LT)_

 _~ Experienced in leadership (Deadeyes/O.M. Ops)_

 _~ Excellent results in the field_

 _~ Weapon proficiency_

 _~ Unswerving loyalty to the Republic_

 _~ Always puts the military first_

 _~ Doesn't hesitate to question/doesn't blindly follow orders_

 _~ Has confidence in his abilities_

 _Main reason for selection: I trust him to get Havoc out of difficulty and finish mission if I fall. He is the only one with a hope of holding the team/what we've built long enough to finish the mission without me. Don't know if this will fly with Garza, but it's worth a shot._

There were several blank lines, then a new entry that picked up with some trivialities of their mission to Tavus' ship, her plans for crew assignments when they arrived.

Jorgan sat, staring at the words in a surprise so deep that he couldn't even think straight, for several minutes.

Slowly, he became aware that the movement behind him had stopped; he could hear nothing but their breathing - Ashara's quiet, his not completely steady - in the small room.

He blinked, eyes running over her notes again. It really did say all that. She really believed he was the best person for the position. Despite his lectures, his stiffness, his doubts, her confidence in him was - inexplicably - unshakable.

If he didn't fully share her opinions of his abilities, especially the last few, he also couldn't find it within himself to doubt her. The hubris required to assume that the commander he admired so greatly could be completely wrong about him and his own conflicting opinions of himself completely correct, was out of his reach. He couldn't see in himself what she clearly did, but he had to admit the possibility that she was correct.

He stood, stiffly, feeling as if a weight was lifting off his shoulders, and turned to face the room.

Ashara sat in the middle of her bed, wearing fatigues now, her legs crossed comfortably. Her eyes were fixed on him, giving him the impression that she would have sat there, silently, for as long as it took help him regain the balance he'd lost to his self-doubt.

Despite her earlier dismissal, he really wasn't good at saying 'thank you,' and this deserved something so far beyond a mere 'thank you' that he didn't even know where to start.

Instead, he settled on meeting her eyes squarely, snapping to attention and giving her a parade-perfect solute.

He hoped she would understand what he couldn't say, that she would accept the gesture as the deeply felt respect and gratitude he meant it to convey.

It seemed she did, since she graced him with the most brilliant smile he'd ever seen and nodded. He returned the nod, and left her room, a new lightness to his steps.


	9. Chapter 9

p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The armory was far too small to pace in. Jorgan only managed two steps before he had to turn. Each time, his frustration increased, until he was slamming a fist into the wall at each turn. /spanstrong id="docs-internal-guid-09469cc2-7fff-b970-dc4c-3abf8639a1fc" style="font-weight: normal;"/strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"When his door hissed open, he froze, suddenly realizing how loud he had been. Compton was standing there; when his eyes met hers, she jerked her head in the "follow me" motion he was used to from a dozen different battlefields, and left. Jorgan groaned, and followed her./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"It was a short walk - the Thunderclap wasn't that big - but it gave Jorgan plenty of time to dread the conversation which must be coming. He wasn't sure if he would be more angered by her pity or her understanding, but neither was going to go well. He was trying to talk himself into the proper frame of mind to respond respectfully to whatever nonsense she spouted at him when they arrived, not at her quarters as he had expected, but at the briefing room. It was empty - a rarity - and she walked in to the front of the room. Jorgan followed warily./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Compton waved a hand at the large empty room. "Better for pacing, plenty of space." She sat down, crossed one leg so her ankle was resting on her knee, and pulled out a datapad./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Casting suspicious glances at her, Jorgan stood still. When she didn't even look up, his anger got the better of him, and he took her up on the offer, pacing across the front of the large room. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Back and forth, anger and buried grief carrying him over the same path again and again. His thoughts settled into a similar well-worn path in his mind, circling around and around the fact of his failure. Failure to discover the nonsense his men had been talked into in time. Failure to save them. Failure to shoot that idiot SIS man. Failure failure failure./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Exhaustion started to creep into his body, if not his spinning thoughts. His pacing slowed down steps faltering as grief started to get the upper hand over anger. Embarrassed by the weakness, he glanced over to see if his CO had noticed his faltering steps. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"She had. She was sitting in the chair she'd taken when they walked in, datapad nowhere in sight. Her eyes were fixed steadily on him as he paced, but she didn't give any indication that she was interested in talking. Scowling, he dragged his gaze away and focused on his pacing. Anger was good for driving grief away, so he focused on it./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"He got through two more trips across the room before he gave in and looked at her again. Her eyes were still fixed steadily on him, and she hadn't moved. He snorted and went back to pacing./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Anger was too hard to maintain indefinitely, though. It took too much energy, and he felt completely empty. He started talking out loud to keep himself focused. Swearing, much more than normal, and he let all the thoughts he'd been flogging himself with pour out in a bitter torrent. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"She sat silently, not objecting to even the worst of the things he said about himself. That was a surprise - she was invariably cheerful and talkative, often filling in his stubborn silences herself. It was the silence which drew his eyes unwillingly back to her. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"She was watching him still, her eyes steady on his face. He couldn't read pity or understanding in that look, and his plans for being angry about whichever she threw at him dissolved - and with them, the rest of his anger. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"As the anger left, it took his energy with it, he slumped against the front wall, and just leaned there, staring at her. Finally, the question he both dreaded and needed an answer to fell from his lips./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""How would you have salvaged this?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The question had been lurking ever since they found Torve on Tatooine. He had known there was no chance for him to gain control of the situation, then; had known that they'd be playing catch up, and could only hope to catch up in time. He had been tempted to ask her to take over, to use that near-miraculous ability to make things come out right in his favor just this once. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Pride had stopped him, though. Pride in his own abilities, pride that had been stomped on when he was demoted and she was promoted above him. Pride that he had thought long gone. His own pride had gotten his men killed, and he had not doubted for a second - even as they stood in the frozen cavern on Hoth and he had wished desperately that she would let him put a hole in Zane's skull - that she would have found a way to save them all./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Her eyes flared wider at the question, and she held out a hand to him, silently waiting for him to decide whether he would accept the invitation or not. He couldn't bear her kindness, but he crossed the room to stand in front of her; he stood over her, glowering, daring her to insist on the contact./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"She didn't, just uncrossed her legs and leaned back a bit until she could meet his eyes./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I couldn't have salvaged this. There was no way to salvage it."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The words slammed into him, and he fell to his knees in front of her. Kneeling in front of her, she was only slightly taller than him. Her words were bouncing around his head, overpowering the things he'd been telling himself, and the grief won. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"His eyes filled with tears, and he only knew that he had to get away before they fell. Blindly, vision blurred, he put his hands out, palms landing on her thighs as he prepared to push himself up and away. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Before he could go, she reached out, her fingers sliding gently along his jaw. She hooked her fingers gently around the back of his neck, and brought him in, her other hand sliding up his arm to his shoulders. She leaned down the short distance between them and let her forehead rest against his, her eyes drilling into him./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Her voice was quiet, no louder than necessary to reach his ears in the slight space between them./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Aric, no one could have saved them. You did the best you could. It is not your fault."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"A tiny part of his mind shouted that this was hugely unprofessional. He was her XO. Nowhere in his job description did it cover sliding his arms around her waist and holding on as if she was the only thing standing between him and the hard vacuum of space. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"She didn't pull away, amazingly. She slipped her own arms around his shoulders, curling over him protectively, and held him while he found his way through the grief. Thanks to her, it no longer carried the sharp stab of guilt./span/p 


End file.
